Men At Work
by justrumbelledearie
Summary: Belle is at her wit's end trying to keep her elderly father out of harm's way while he slides further and further into dementia. What she desperately requires is a capable, live-in caretaker. Enter Shaun, a modern day Spinner!Rum.
1. Men At Work

It was the sort of merciless, pelting rain that leapt back up off of the pavement, wetting your pant legs twice—the very sort of weather that made Shaun detest living in Derbyshire three seasons out of the four.

Dingy clouds had hung low in the sky since well before dawn, looking morose and threatening a downpour. The road crew had only just managed to begin packing away their machinery when the first low rumble of thunder was heard overhead. That far-off warning was followed by a chill, dogged wind that tossed about the bare branches of the nearby chesnut trees and—finally—brought in the deluge.

"Shaun! Hold 'em off, hey? We're nearly ready to go here!"

Shaun cups a hand over his eyes against the spitting rain, calling back: "Aye! Put a rush on it, yeah? This weather is shite."

He is currently propping up a heavy, freestanding stop sign, struggling against the early October squall. On any other morning, he would be standing up high on the balls of his feet and craning his neck, examining the long, angry line of cars and lorries stretched out in front of him on Makeney Road, all of them idling and wasting their petrol while they impatiently wait for him to flip his tall stop sign to 'Slow.'

Aye, on any regular, weekday morning (without a bleedin' Category 5 hurricane descending over his sorry head) Shaun would be impatiently watching for the dented, blue Astra and its pretty driver, craving the hot coffee she brings him in the paper Puccino's takeaway cup. And most especially—craving her bright, chummy smile and almost embarrassingly eager to hear her chirp: "Good morning, Shaun! Still hard at work, then?"

Her name, Shaun had finally managed to discover on the third day she drove his route and got held up short by his stop sign, is Belle French—and he doesn't believe Belle French and her posh, takeaway coffee will be coming by today.

Because the driver of the blue Astra is like clockwork, right?

Every weekday morning at 8:15 on the nose, Belle French's old car crests over the nearby hilltop, and Shaun stands up a wee bit straighter and prepares to flip his 'Slow' sign to 'Stop' and—maybe, possibly, oh please God—locate his misplaced goolies and try for her bleedin' telephone number.

At the very least, even when he inevitably loses his nerve and fails to ask her out casual-like for chips and a pint, he and Belle French always manage to have a nice, friendly chit-chat about the autumn weather, or the local road conditions, or Liverpool's slim title chances this upcoming season.

And those brief, chummy chats make his whole day—they really do.

But now it's already 8:35 according to his rubber wristwatch, and it's absolutely minging out, and it's time to pack this shite up and head back home to bed until this foul autumn weather leaves off.

Shaun tells himself it's about the coffee.

The stuff Belle French brings him is really so much better than the bitter, dredgey sludge he leaves cooking on the hot plate while he showers and dresses himself in the early morning dark. Bitter, thick, and black as tar was how his best mate Daz took his coffee before he passed away last summer, and consequently Shaun has never learned to make it any other way.

"Alright, Shaun! All set here! You can let 'em through."

Grimacing, his shoulders hunched tight against the driving rain, Shaun lowers the stop sign and waves the waiting cars ahead, trudging slowly out of their way, over to the muddy side of the road.

What to do with himself for the rest of the day is the question.

Get back under his cruddy, stale duvet, most likely. Watch a bit of boring telly. Give his willy a bit of rough handling and try not to think about how long it's been since someone's done that for him. Make a toasted cheese sandwich and heat up a can of soup on the stove top. Think about Belle French. Have another go at himself. Maybe head on down to the local for a pint come the evening.

Christ, it's a lonely life.

Shaun loads his stop sign into a covered construction truck. He begins walking back alongside the torn-up road to his rusted Volkswagen, kicking loose chunks of asphalt out of the way—and then he sees it!

Aye, it's the blue Astra driving towards him!

His heart makes a funny flip-flop-thud within his chest, and he pushes his wet, messy hair back out of his eyes. He smiles nervously—he cannot help it—and stands up just a wee bit straighter.

Belle French signals with her right blinker, then pulls her car over to the shoulder of the road, crunching over loose gravel and rolling to a slow stop just three yards in front of him. Her windshield wipers are flapping frantically against the rain.

She reaches hastily around behind her car seat and pushes open the rear door on the driver's side, calling out:

"Hey there—get in, Shaun!"

He breaks into an awkward, stumbling run, then ducks his shaggy head and scrambles quickly inside. He is dripping wet, but her grey upholstery is already stained and threadbare, so he doubts it matters very much. The heat is turned up high inside the small car, and the windows are mostly fogged over from the humidity.

Belle remains twisted around in her car seat with her foot on the brake, facing the rear and smiling at him.

Her lovely face looks strained and tired.

An elderly gentleman is sitting beside her in the passenger seat, absently playing with the broken latch on the glove compartment. Lying prone upon the old man's wide lap, looking peevish and vaguely forlorn, is a Welsh Terrier of indiscriminate color with bushy, overgrown eyebrows and a dripping nose.

The listless animal takes no notice of Shaun.

Belle says, "I was worried I might miss you! Here is your coffee, no cream, three sugars—" she reaches for the paper cup next to hers in the cup holder and carefully hands it back to him, "—and, ech, I'm so sorry, Shaun. We're running a bit behind today. This morning got off to a rough start…"

"No worries!—thanks so much for the coffee…"

He reaches hurriedly for the door handle, disappointed but not wanting to hold up her morning commute. After all, some people have proper, permanent jobs to get to that don't involve serving as bleedin' brainless human signage.

At that very same moment, the elderly gentleman tires of the glove compartment latch and reaches to let himself out of the car.

"No, Daddy, stop! It's raining buckets out there—Aggie will get loose!"

Belle twists around and makes a frantic jab at the power lock on the side of her car door, accidentally jostling Shaun's paper coffee cup and spilling the contents all over his boots and her floor mats. She wasn't quite quick enough, though—the elderly gentleman swings open his car door just as the window lock clicks into place. He unbuckles his seat belt and steps determinedly out into the heavy downpour, holding onto Aggie's fraying collar.

"Daddy, no!"

She is after him in a flash, thrusting the blue Astra into park and throwing off her own seat belt, then recklessly shouldering open her car door, altogether heedless of the heavy morning traffic.

Shaun follows fast on her heels, ignoring the rain and the startled honks from passing motorists.

"Daddy, what are you—"

The elderly gentleman is bending down over the tall grass at the side of the road. The back of his plaid, button-down shirt is already damp through, and he is tugging a small clump of violet asters out of the wet soil. He holds the wildflowers close to his broad chest and straightens upright, looking lost and confused.

The dog stands beside him, furry head bowed against the rain.

"Oh Daddy, flowers again? But they're dirty, Daddy! Just look at your pant legs. Oh, please drop them—drop them! Come on, let's get you back in the car…"

Shaun holds open the dented passenger side door, and together they manage to coax Belle's disoriented father back inside. Aggie is relegated to the back seat, where she promptly shakes off her wet, smelly fur, flinging water droplets against the windshield, side doors, and dashboard.

"I found him in the back garden last night, pulling up the pansy bed," Belle confesses, crossing her arms tight over her chest and shivering.

Shaun nods, shrugging off his jacket and draping it over her shoulders.

Oblivious, she goes on: "He wandered away twice this past weekend and let himself into a neighbor's flat. He started to make himself a toasted cheese sandwich and left the butter smoking in the pan—the second time it happened the woman called the police, and—and, oh God—oh God, he doesn't even know my name anymore…"

Her face crumples, and she begins to cry quietly, hastily hiding her wet eyes and twisted mouth behind cupped hands. The rain has flattened her thick, brown hair against her scalp.

Shaun has never been the sort of man to say the right thing to say at the right moment, but he knows enough to take a woman in his arms when she is crying. He steps forward and tentatively wraps his arms around her thin, shaking shoulders, making a low, sympathetic sound and encouraging Belle to hide her face against his damp work shirt.

She gratefully sinks into the embrace.

"Hey now," he says clumsily, resting his cheek on top of her wet hair, trying to keep some of the rain off, "Hey now—he's safe now…"

"I have to take him to the day care center today," Belle snuffles into his shirtfront, gripping the flannel in two great fistfuls, "Today is his first day, and he doesn't want to go—he wouldn't leave the bloody house this morning without Aggie, and they won't take a dog into an adult day care center—and I can't take her with me to work, so I'm going to be late, and I—and I don't even know what I'm doing anymore…"

Her mouth twists again, and she's back to loud crying.

Shaun lets her, because sometimes that's the best thing, right? Not saying anything—just letting grief work its own way out.

He strokes a careful hand over the back of her wet hair, enjoying the slick, warm feel of it beneath his palm and fingers. She fits perfectly within the tight circle of his arms, and that's really quite unusual given that he's so slight. But with Belle's damp head tucked underneath his chin, Shaun feels a bit taller.

Hell, he feels almost whole.

It takes her a full minute, but she manages to collect herself at last, stepping clumsily backwards and scrubbing at her pink eyes with the heels of both hands.

"I must seem like an absolute madwoman, but it's just that—we visited the center last week, and all the workers talked to him like he was a child, you know? 'Well, don't you look smart today, Mr. French?' 'What is your very favorite program to watch on telly, Mr. French?' I know they're just trying to be nice, but—Daddy served in the war! He was awarded a Distinguised Service Cross! And now he'll just be one of the dozens and dozens of elderly people they scold and feed banana pudding and call 'duck' and—and he'd absolutely hate that…"

Throughout this impassioned little speech, Mr. French has been watching his daughter through the fogged-over car window. His mouth is ajar, and his pale, blue eyes are woeful. It is as if he already knows what this dreary day has in store for him.

Aggie also watches from the back seat, her furry head cocked. The dog's wet, snuffling nose has left smears upon the window.

"You know, if you're not altogether comfortable with this day center place, I…ah…" Shaun doesn't let himself think too hard before plunging ahead, "…I could watch your Da—until you find something better, that is. I spent the past I-don't-know-how-many-years looking after my best mate. I'm pretty good at it, actually."

He realizes, as he says this, that it's true. He does have a worthwhile life skill, regardless of how bleedin' hard he struggles with those baffling 'career aptitude' forms.

Belle steps further back, searching his face. "Wait—what?"

Shaun explains: "I'm—it's just something I know how to do. I could watch him. For awhile. Just until you find something better."

She sniffs loudly and brushes at her wet eyes again. It—and her smeared makeup—is a lost cause, though. The rain hasn't let up any.

"But—what about your construction job?" she asks.

His shoulders slump slightly. He really wishes he didn't have to admit to this part. "Well, it's only temporary-like. It'll be over by the end of the week. I'm not part of the regular work crew here. I'll have to be out looking for something new anyhow."

Now it's Belle's turn to look embarrassed.

"Well, I—it's just that—Shaun, I'm a copy editor for the local newspaper, and I'm afraid it doesn't pay very much. That's why I had to settle for this day center. The health service won't cover anything more expensive—such as in-home care. I'd only be able to give you two hundred a week."

It's fifty quid more than he's making right now, but Shaun isn't about to volunteer that sort of mortifying information.

Instead he simply says: "That's fine. That's just fine."

Belle laughs, and it's a shaky, relieved little sound.

"Well, alright then," she says, throwing her shoulders back, "How about you follow me back to my humble, little flat? I really hope you aren't allergic to dogs. Is that your brown Volkswagen up ahead?"

Shaun smiles, allowing that the old rust bucket belongs to him—then he ducks his head, hunches his shoulders, and makes a run for it, trying to avoid the deepest puddles.

With the car key in the ignition and the windshield wipers beating out a steady, urgent rhythm, Shaun sighs and allows his wet head to rest against the steering wheel for a brief moment.

He mutters a quick prayer, then puts on his blinker and prepares to follow Belle French wherever she might lead him.


	2. Men At Home

Belle's flat is dark and smells of burnt toast.

Dirty dishes are piled up next to the kitchen sink, and bread crumbs are scattered across the peeling, laminate counter top. An ancient, oily cast iron skillet rests atop the old stove, half-filled with congealing scrambled eggs. Unfolded laundry is heaped upon the dining room table and spills over onto the unswept floor.

The heavy curtains in Belle's living room are tightly drawn, so what little light there is to be had on this dreary, autumn day is blotted out.

She has left her telly on full blast.

On-screen, a balding newscaster with a self-satisfied, BBC accent reads from the local weather bulletin: "Be on the lookout for high, gusting winds and scattered thunderstorms throughout the afternoon and on into the early evening…"

Undeterred by the shadows and gloom, Belle's father crosses from the cramped entryway into the living room. He settles himself into a sagging easy chair that faces the flickering screen.

Aggie follows close behind him, her tail hung low and her dog tags jangling. She collapses beside the easy chair's elevated footrest with a weary, put-upon sigh.

"Oh no—your boots, Daddy!"

Mr. French has left behind a trail of muddy footprints on the worn-down, oatmeal-colored carpet. (Aggie, it would seem, left all of hergrime behind in the backseat of the blue Astra. Small favors, indeed.)

Belle had been digging around on the dining room table for a clean towel to hand to her house guest, but she abruptly abandons the effort and rushes over to unlace and remove her father's muddy shoes. Afterwards, standing in the middle of the dim living room, staring at her soiled carpet, holding one dripping, dirty boot in each hand, she looks once again very close to tears.

"Oh hey, Belle—hey. Don't cry. I can fix that easy."

Shaun kicks off his own wet shoes and runs a hand through his hair. He offers, "Just point me in the direction of your cleaning solvents and the like. Then you can head on off to work, okay?"

She smiles at him, tight-lipped and oh-so-wistful.

Behind them, Aggie has begun to softly snore.

After a charged, dangling moment of unbroken eye contact, Belle manages to shrug off her defeated posture and walks over to stand close beside him.

"You saved my life today, Shaun. You know that, right?"

She plops her father's grubby boots down on the floor mat, then reaches out for his left hand—the one that doesn't form a claw and curl in on itself—and gives it a hard, fierce, grateful squeeze. "I mean it. I don't know how I'm ever going to thank you. You're just brilliant."

Now, he's only a man.

A bleedin' hard up man, at that.

It isn't really Shaun's fault that several explicit scenarios of Belle French thanking him enthusiastically spring immediately to mind.

He may have nowt but cotton between his two ears, but Shaun isn't an outright git. He keeps his fool mouth shut, keeps his eyes on the bleedin' carpet, and makes certain to let go of Belle's soft hand before she decides to let go of his.

"I'm just happy I can help you out of a tight spot," he answers, feeling terribly awkward, as if his skin has been put on wrong. "You really don't need to mention it, Belle—alright?"

But she smiles at him with misty eyes as if she plans to mention it plenty—a lovely, proper smile this time, with deep dimples and tiny teeth lined up like pearls—and then she turns away and reaches inside her purse, which is resting on top of the kitchen counter.

"Alright, ah, here are Daddy's pills. He can take them all in one go with his afternoon meal. He likes grapefruit juice best, so try offering them with that. All of the cleaning stuff is under the kitchen sink. Daddy's dry shirts are in the bureau in the back bedroom—although you might not be able to get him out of that one. My mum loved it on him."

Belle's eyes dim for a moment, but she quickly comes back to life.

"I'll try to be home before five-thirty—if that's alright? Here's my mobile number in case you need anything. Help yourself to absolutely anything in the fridge and cupboards. Oh! The tumble dryer is just back through there if you need to—ah…"

Belle flushes beautifully and clears her throat while she indicates removing his damp work shirt to get it dry.

Shaun finds himself wondering if perhaps he wasn't entirely alone in his fantasies of mutual, enthusiastic thanksgiving.

"I know I must be forgetting something," Belle frets.

She stands near the front door, nervously jingling her car keys and staring around her messy kitchen.

"It isn't always like this," she adds hastily, her eyes darting to the pile of unfolded laundry on the dining room table. "This was just a really, really rubbish morning."

"I've had a shite morning or three myself, Belle. Please don't trouble yourself over it any. Perhaps just give us a wee quick introduction? Then you can be on your way to work?"

Shaun glances over at the elderly Mr. French, who has sunk quite low in his wide easy chair. His thick chin is resting heavily on his chest. The blue light from the telly flickers over his slack, wrinkled face.

"Of course! Good Lord, where is my mind at? Oh, Daddy—"

Belle takes Shaun by his right hand—the cramped, mangled, useless one this time—and leads him across the living room to properly meet her father.

She doesn't seem to notice that he cannot grasp her fingers in return.

"Daddy, this is my friend, Shaun. He'll be looking after you whilst I'm away at work. I want you to do exactly as he says, okay? Shaun, this is my father, Mr. Maurice French. And this—well, this is smelly, old Aggie. She'll let you know when she needs her walk."

Aggie, apparently not fully asleep, blows a disdainful huff of air out of her wet, black snout and carries on ignoring them. Her curly, folded-over ears nearly cover her eyes.

Maurice French reaches out to tentatively grip the fingers of the hand Shaun has stretched out to him, looking utterly baffled.

They gently shake.

"It's very nice to meet you, Sir," Shaun offers, unsure if he should also greet the dog. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance as well, Aggie."

He carefully places the old man's limp, dry hand back onto the arm of the easy chair. Maurice turns his attention back to the loud telly.

"Well, I suppose I should be going," Belle says, looking anxious.

"Aye, go," Shaun agrees, "You don't want to get sacked."

"And you promise you'll call if you need anything?" she asks.

"We'll be fine," he promises.

"Shaun, I—"

But Belle breaks off and shakes her head, as if she has momentarily lost the thread of her own thoughts. She takes a quick, shallow breath, then steps closer and hugs him hard. Belle presses her cold, snub nose against the warm tendons at the side of his neck and exhales slowly, gripping him tight around his shoulders.

They are standing belly to belly, pelvis to pelvis, her small breasts pressed tight to his damp chest—and she is sinking into him as if she's too wrung out to bear up her own weight a moment longer.

Shaun shuts his eyes, and Belle's soft hair brushes past his unshaven cheek, smelling of sweet, floral shampoo.

"Shaun, I just—thank you," she whispers.

Her breath is hot and ticklish against his collarbone.

Between their two, clinging bodies, Shaun's long-neglected prick is coming quickly back to life, thickening against the inseam of his denim trousers and pressing itself eagerly against the cushion of Belle's warm left thigh. Embarrassed, he tries to step back and allow a bit of daylight and modesty between the two of them—but Belle's hand travels from his shoulder blade to the damp hollow of his back, pulling him closer.

The pleasure of the snug, insistent pressure against his growing stiffy surprises a low, gratified "Ah!" from his parted lips.

Shivering, shutting her eyes, Belle lifts a hand to the back of his neck and holds him even tighter. Shaun allows his forehead to droop down against the knobby ridge of Belle's slender shoulder.

He finds himself imagining: a sun-dappled, Saturday morning. Windows open. Waking up beside Belle. Rolling over. Kissing her. Throwing a leg over. Thrusting deeply between her spread legs. Belle gasping and arching beneath him. Her hands roughly gripping his pale arse. Using her fingernails. Digging in deeper.

Urging him onwards.

Standing beside the dining room table, they slowly breathe each other in—very deep and very unsteady—whilst Shaun thickens and swells to full attention against Belle's generously padded thigh.

Her fingers twist in his shaggy hair.

"You're ah—you'll be late…" he mutters, suddenly horrified at the thought of popping off in his pants like some green teenager.

Which is exactly how he feels.

Behind them, a loud advert comes onto the telly. Some ugly nutter in a bad suit yelling about mad, mad prices on barely-used automobiles. Maurice French shifts uncomfortably in his easy chair.

"Yeah, I'll—ah, I'll take off now…" Belle agrees.

They step apart.

"Ah, about tonight," she says, glancing over at her father, "You wouldn't want to stay for dinner, would you? If you aren't too buggered? Maybe if I brought home some carry out? As a thank you?"

"Ah—aye, aye," Shaun replies, turning away for propriety's sake.

His face feels uncomfortably hot, and his trousers—well, his trousers won't be properly comfortable for another ten minutes at least.

"Aye, I think that sounds just—absolutely terrific, Belle."


	3. Men In Love

Shaun parts the living room drapes and peers out of the front window, watching while Belle puts the blue Astra into reverse.

She twists around impatiently in her car seat, flinging an arm around the passenger side headrest, gripping the steering wheel tightly with her free hand, glancing backwards over her left shoulder—and very nearly collides with the side of his rusty, brown Volkswagen.

He flinches, then laughs to see her lips form the word: "Bugger!"

A moment later, they lock eyes through the rain-streaked glass.

Shaun raises his good hand in a bemused, bashful greeting, then allows his fingertips to rest lightly against the cool window pane, smudging away some of the condensation.

Belle rewards him with an embarrassed smile, then grimaces theatrically and mouths the word "Sorry" before slowly backing out of the gravel driveway. Her car wheels splash through the deep mud puddles, and her dented rear bumper only misses the post box by scant inches. She raises her hand in a hasty farewell, and then the blue Astra accelerates out of sight.

"You know, she may be having a rough go of it just now," Shaun says, addressing Maurice French over the loud clamor of the telly, "but your daughter is going to be just fine. You as well, sir. Just fine."

In a low voice, only to himself, he adds, "I'll see to it."

Maurice doesn't have a ready answer for him—nor even an interested, sideways glance—but, then, Shaun wasn't rightly expecting one.

He carries on his one-sided conversation whilst tugging open the heavy living room drapes: "Well, I'd say the very first thing we need to do is to get some bleedin' light in here! Air the place out a bit."

The grey morning sky spills in through the front window, highlighting the grime on the carpet and the thick layer of dust on the coffee table. Yellowing newspapers are stacked up precariously atop a cheap, particleboard bookshelf, and dirty dishes are piled up next to Maurice French's sagging easy chair.

It seems that Aggie may have licked some of them partways clean.

"Alright, here's what I'm going to do," Shaun informs the dirt and the dishes and the dog and the heaped, wrinkled laundry, "I'm going to see to this wet mud before it completely ruins your daughter's carpet, and then you and I, sir—" he lays a firm hand on Maurice French's thick, furry forearm—"and then you and I, sir, will sort this laundry out together. There will be absolutely no layabouts on my watch."

Belle's father blinks at Shaun slowly. His milky-blue eyes are curious and uncomprehending.

The cleaning solvents are exactly where Belle said they would be, tucked away beneath the kitchen sink. A faint whiff of mildew greets him when Shaun opens up the laminate cupboard doors and takes out the stiff-bristled scrub brush and the off-brand soap flakes.

"Aye, this should do the trick quite nicely. You just keep an eye on the scores from last night's football match, and I'll have this carpet looking spiffy-new in no time."

In actual fact, the ground-in mud takes a fair amount of time and elbow grease, as do the crusty, day-old dishes—which Shaun decides to tend to straightaway seeing as he has the soap flakes out already. When he finally turns his attention back to Belle's elderly father, he is surprised to see that the yammering of the telly no longer holds Maurice French's rapt attention.

Instead, the old man has a thick book of photographs laid open upon his lap, and he is slowly paging through them.

"What's this—family memories?" Shaun asks, wiping his hands on his denim trousers and walking over.

Over Maurice's hunched shoulder, he glances white-rimmed snapshots of Belle as a young child—gap-toothed and grinning—standing between her suntanned parents on a long-ago holiday at the seashore. Her chin-length, chestnut hair is a wild mess, and the summer sun has scattered freckles across the bridge of her pert nose. Maurice French stands beside her, positively lit from within by his health, his youth, and his great good fortune. He looks happier and leaner than Shaun could ever have imagined him.

"And who's this, then?" Shaun indicates the dark-haired beauty who is holding onto little Belle's right hand. The woman's chin comes to a charming, elvish point, and her brown eyes squint against the bright sunshine. "She must have been your wife, eh? She's very easy on the eyes, sir—I hope you don't mind me saying so."

Maurice smooths his fingers over the clear, plastic film that covers the photographs, rubbing away imaginary ripples. Judging by the smudgy, smeary streaks across the album pages, he does this often.

"Collete," Maurice says.

His voice is low and rough, corroded by disuse.

"Colette, you say?" Shaun is taken aback to hear him speak at all. "She's a stunner. You have a beautiful family, sir."

"Collete," Belle's father repeats fretfully.

Maurice flips the pages of the photo album forward, and in front of Shaun's eyes, Belle French grows up. The wind-mussed, gap-toothed child becomes a shy, grinning preteen, who later becomes a poised, costumed ballerina in full make-up—who then goes on to become an elated Uni graduate with a tassel hanging over her left eye.

By her side for every new accomplishment, every exciting achievement, are Maurice and Colette French, looking fit to burst with pride for their beautiful only daughter.

Near the end of the photo album, there are fewer pictures of Belle, whom Shaun assumes must have moved away to live an independent, adult life—but there are so very many snapshots of Colette.

Colette beside a low, smoking campfire, holding up a tree branch and laughing wildly; Colette in wet snorkeling gear, making a funny, scrunched up face; Colette at a fancy dress party, raising up the hem of her dress to display her small, bare feet. Colette curled up snug beneath a blanket on a worn, beige sofa—the very same worn, beige sofa in this messy living room, Shaun realizes—completely absorbed in a thick, dog-eared book.

Belle's mother shares her small stature and high, smooth forehead. They have the very same arch to their eyebrows, the same puckish twinkle in their bright eyes.

The last few pages of the photo album tell a more somber story. Colette's pale cheeks are suddenly wan and hollowed out, and her dark hair lays limp upon her shoulders. Belle appears in the album once again, curled tightly against her mother's side, a book held open in her hand. On the final page, Maurice bends low to kiss the crown of his sleeping wife's head. Colette reclines in a collapsible hospital bed pushed up against the living room window with the heavy drapes drawn back. Belle dozes beside her mother's hip, her cheek pressed against Colette's limp hand.

And then the album ends.

"You have a beautiful family, sir," Shaun repeats, at an utter loss for anything better to say.

"Colette," Maurice nods.

"She died," Shaun says softly.

Maurice doesn't reply. He closes the photo album, sighing deeply.

"I'll tell you what," says Shaun, also exhaling, "How about we have ourselves some hot tea and biscuits? Laundry sorting can wait until after we've had a snack and a warm bevvie. Can I help you up, sir?"

He offers Maurice his elbow.

With great effort and much grunting, Shaun manages to heave the stiff, stout old man up out of his easy chair. They catch their breath, then make their way—slowly, laboriously—towards Belle's kitchen.

The tin tea kettle is already resting on the stove top, so Shaun gives it a quick rinse, then fills it back up with tap water before scrounging around in the upper cupboards for a package of McVities digestives.

To his absolute delight, Belle has purchased the premium, chocolate-dipped variety.

"There now," he says, pouring out two steaming mugs of Earl Grey, "There—we'll just shove this laundry off to one side and have ourselves a nice cuppa. Don't say old age doesn't come with some benefits. You may be struggling with your memories, sir, but at least we get to pull up around the table for mid-morning teatime. Doesn't get much more bleedin' genteel than that."

Maurice clasps his mug with two large, gnarled hands and huffs into his tea. The steam billows up around his broad face. He smiles.

"Yeah, just like that—blow on it a bit first. You don't want to scorch your tongue and not be able to enjoy our lunch. Your daughter tells me you're overfond of toasted cheese sandwiches. I was thinking that I'd make some of those and a can of soup. Good for a blustery day."

The two men munch and slurp in companionable silence.

Afterwards, Shaun shows Belle's father how to wipe down the table and also how to carry and place his dishes in the kitchen sink. The laundry folding follows, and it is an uneventful chore—uneventful save for the lace nightie that appears in Shaun's hands without warning.

He coughs.

"I—ah, fancied you for a larger size, sir."

Doing his damndest to pass off Belle's dainty, sheer unmentionables as a lighthearted joke, Shaun thrusts the nightie into her father's hands to be folded, but the blood that colors his cheeks and heats the back of his neck betrays him. The room has become suddenly, unbearably warm.

Shaun walks off to tackle the dusting.

The remainder of their afternoon together is unexpectedly pleasant. The old man is a silent, obliging, hovering helpmate, willing to hold onto things like brooms and buckets and mops—and also to move out of the way while Shaun scrubs and tidies Belle's small flat.

There is a pulse-raising incident that occurs during the drowsy, sated, post-lunch hour. Both men sit down to watch telly and put their feet up for a spell whilst they comfortably digest. Shaun closes his eyes for what he intends to be a brief flicker of a moment—and then opens them thirty minutes later to find that Belle's father has gone missing.

"Shite! Shite!"

He is up off his duff immediately—heart pounding and trying to escape by way of his dry throat—and then, blessedly, Shaun notices that the back door is ajar, and he hears Aggie's loud snuffling out in the garden.

"Mr. French! Ach, Maurice—where'd you get off to?"

He finds his elderly charge bent double near the back garden gate, pulling up what little there is left of the wilting pansy bed. Aggie sits beside him, tail thumping against the wet dirt.

Thankfully, the cold autumn rain has left off.

"Well, I suppose it's time we two took you for a walk anyhow, doggy," Shaun says, too relieved to be cross.

He kneels down to scratch Aggie behind each soft, curly ear.

"You must really be fond of flowers, sir. Maybe you were a florist in a former life? Hey—don't go wandering off like that again, yeah? You nearly cost me five years off my natural lifespan."

Maurice says nothing. He clutches the pansies tight to his chest as they amble around the neighborhood, Aggie tethered to a short leather leash that Shaun found conveniently hung up by the back door.

Back at the tidy, sweet-smelling flat, Shaun encourages Maurice to amuse himself by arranging the flowers on the kitchen table, bringing him mugs and bowls and drinking glasses of all sizes to hold the wilted pansies. Belle's father is mesmerized by the simple game. He pauses in his fastidious floral arranging only to visit the loo and to spend a few happy moments gazing at his photo album.

"Colette," he says softly, moving a flower from a teacup to a pint glass.

At half past five, Belle telephones her home.

She is short of breath and stuck in traffic.

"I'm so, so sorry, Shaun," she says, with a wretched, wobbly edge to her voice. He can hear impatient commuters laying on their horns in the background. "The thunderstorm knocked out the traffic light by McGinty's Pub, and it's fender-to-fender for the next mile or so. I picked us up a cheese pizza, but I'm worried it's going cold. How are you? How's Daddy? God, Shaun, I'm so sorry for this—I'll be home just as quick as I can…"

He assures her that he and her father are getting along splendidly and that he'll take care of Maurice's supper, no problem.

After some gentle coaxing and a solemn promise to turn on the oven for the cold pizza, Shaun is finally able to get Belle off her mobile so that she can concentrate on the snarl of traffic that lies in front of her.

"Well, what would you say to some spaghetti tonight?" he asks, hanging up the phone and turning towards Maurice, "With some meat sauce and a little melted parmesan? Your flowers look lovely, sir."

By the time Belle finally rushes in her front door at quarter past six, Shaun is already helping her father with his toothbrush and pajamas.

"Daddy? Shaun? Where are you? I'm home—!"

The cozy little family tableau that greets her in the hallway loo pulls Belle up short, and she watches while Shaun wipes the last fleck of tomato sauce from the corner of her father's mouth with a washrag.

"There now, sir. All clean—and now off you go to welcome your daughter home!" Shaun leads Maurice in his bathrobe and slippers over to where Belle is standing, clutching her greasy pizza box.

"Hi, Daddy," she says softly.

Maurice French smiles at his daughter vaguely.

Shaun offers, "If you see him off to bed, I'll take care of the cold pizza. Your father really was a tremendous help today."

"Yeah?" Belle replies, turning and gazing around the clean flat, "Well, it seems he wasn't the only one." She hands over the pizza box, hesitates, then presses a soft, shy kiss to Shaun's right cheek. Afterwards, she takes her father by the hand and gently leads him away to his back bedroom. Aggie stands up, stretches, and follows after them, her dog tags jangling cheerfully.

When Belle returns, Shaun is busy setting the dining room table.

"You know, I could take off if you like," he offers, "If you're tired and just want some peace and quiet. I know how it is after a long day."

"No—please stay," Belle says, with a bit too much force, but then she quickly remembers herself: "Ah, what I meant to say is—I'd love some company for dinner, Shaun, but only if you aren't too tired. I know that Daddy can be quite a handful—and I know that you've been up since well before dawn. Sugared coffee can only do so much."

"He really wasn't any trouble," Shaun protests.

Now that the plates and paper napkins are all laid out upon the dining room table, he doesn't know exactly what to do with his hands. He tucks his awkwardly-curled, right-hand fingers into his left armpit and stares down at his white socks. Belle keeps looking around her clean flat, taking in the vacuumed carpet, the dusted bookshelves, the empty kitchen sink, and the folded laundry.

"You're better with him than I am," she says at last, meeting his eyes.

Her voice is small and sad.

"I'm sure that isn't true," Shaun demurs.

"No, it is true."

Belle pulls out a dining room chair and collapses into it, resting her elbow upon the side of the table. Shaun pulls out another chair and sits down close beside her.

"You know, I took Daddy shopping this past weekend," Belle says, "He spends most of his time sitting in that awful chair, and his trouser size is creeping upwards. There was an elderly woman who worked in the dressing room—picking the clothes up off the floor, smoothing them, folding them, and putting everything to rights. Well, when Daddy and I came out of the little changing stall, she hustled right over and straightened his collar and started praising his new getup. 'Oh, my my, don't you look handsome, sir! Why, turn 'round and catch sight of yourself in the mirror, Mr. Dapper!' She must have known there was something wrong with him, because Daddy never once smiled or spoke to her, but she just kept fussing over him."

Belle sighs and rests her chin upon her hand.

"I told the saleslady there was really no need—we were already buying the trousers, and Daddy didn't understand her anyhow. 'Why, nonsense!' she said, 'With a gentleman as handsome as this one, it's important to make a bit of a fuss.' And then she patted Daddy's cheek and smiled at him, very friendly."

"She was being so kind. I don't think a sales commission even factored into it, but then I—I started to cry, Shaun. Because it was all so horribly sad. Daddy didn't understand her. He didn't care for this pair of wool trousers over that pair of khaki trousers. He didn't care about being fussed over or not fussed over. So what was the point of any of it? Daddy's gone—he's gone, and he isn't ever coming back."

Belle's blue eyes begin to water. She bites her lower lip.

Shaun would very much like to reach out and pull her in for another bracing, tender hug—just as tight and close and consoling as the embraces they shared earlier this morning—but seeing as they're both sitting down at the table, he cannot tell if another embrace would be entirely proper and welcome.

Surely you don't just pull a distraught near-stranger into your lap?

Instead, he reaches for the white-knuckled hand that is fisted against her knee and tells Belle: "It is sad that you father has forgotten so much. But, Belle—it isn't only sad."

He squeezes her hand.

Bewildered, Belle squeezes back.

"See, now your father will get to experience the deepest, truest kind of love there is—love when you cannot offer a single thing in return, not even a simple smile. Love when you're at your lowliest and most dependent. And your father is lucky—he has you to look after and care for him. Not everyone has someone to tend and fuss over them when they need it the most. But he does. He has you—and now he has me."

Belle's eyes are shining by the time Shaun finishes his little speech. She cannot speak, but nods to show that she understands.

He stands slowly, still holding onto her trembling hand and says, "Well, that's my soapbox for tonight. How about something to eat?"

She doesn't respond, but also rises to her feet, swaying slightly, staring at him with wide, wet eyes and undisguised adoration.

Belle cautiously touches the coarse salt-and-pepper whiskers upon his left cheek, the heat from her palm warming his soft, unshaven jawline. Shaun freezes, hardly daring to take another breath, held captive by the full-blown black of her enormous pupils. She slides her warm hand around behind his feverish, ungroomed neck, clasping the knotty bone and narrow tendons, playing with his unkempt hair.

"You are the very best—the most extraordinary person I've ever met," she confesses, her lips very close to the shell of his ear. "Shaun, you're just brilliant."

When it comes, Belle French's kiss is hungrier than he ever dared imagine it. Gone is the friendly girl with the posh, takeaway coffee cup and the kindly, nervous chatter. When her pale lips meet his, they are already widely parted, and her hot, forceful tongue demands immediate entrance to his mouth. She holds him still with a tight hand upon the back of his neck, leans hard against him, flickers her tongue over the rippled roof of his mouth, presses hungrily closer.

Leaning back against the solid edge of the table, Shaun blissfully yields to this greedy, breathless assault, opening his mouth for her, returning her kiss, and, finally, pressing his hands into the small of her back.

"Oh God—Shaun, oh no—I'm so sorry," Belle moans, breaking away from his embrace and looking absolutely wretched. "You don't have to do this. Shite, here I am, offering you a paycheck and then coming after you like some trollop on the make. Christ, I don't know what's the matter with me today. I'm so, so sorry. Can we just forget—?"

"No please," he begs, breathing hard and taking her hand to bring it back up to his shoulder, "No please, Belle! I don't want to forget—do absolutely anything you want with me. Please—I want you to."

She stares at him, cautious and uncertain, then watches while he guides her fingers to his trouser zipper, beyond pride, just begging: "Use me however you want to—use me get you off. Be rough with me. Please—I want you to. It's been so long since anyone has."

He can see the moment she truly believes him—the hunger and greed that floods back into Belle's wide, impossibly blue eyes, taking control.

She begins to hastily work his zipper down lower, eagerly mouthing his neck while she does so, sucking and biting and searing him with lashes from her hot, seeking tongue, her humid breath scalding his too-tight skin. "I want you—in my bedroom, Shaun," she gasps, breaking away, but keeping tight hold of his ruined right hand, "Please—I don't want Daddy to walk out and find us."

He follows fast behind her, beyond grateful, too far gone to be embarrassed by the lurid, straining hump in his unzipped trousers or the way he must hold up his drooping clothing up with one hand.

"Lay down here. Yeah, lie back," Belle says, shoving a large pile of laundry off her unmade bed and onto the floor, "I'll be right back." While he waits, Shaun makes a mental note to buy Belle a proper hamper. It will make his job that much easier.

From the adjoining bathroom, there comes a loud, startling clatter. Several hollow, plastic somethings have fallen out of a high-up medicine cabinet—but when Shaun raises himself up on both elbows to have a look-see, Belle promptly returns, holding onto a small, square bit of silver foil.

"You know, it's a miracle this hasn't expired," she says.

"It's been quite a long while for me as well," he admits breathlessly.

They smile at one another, fond and aching, and then Belle quickly crosses the bedroom, stands between his spread knees, tosses the little foil package up onto her crumpled bed sheets, and says: "I want tosuck you, Shaun. Just your bare skin—so that I can really taste you, and then—" She indicates the condom lying on the sheets with a hungry flick of her eyes.

"Can I?" she asks. "Is that alright?"

Her fingers tremble, hovering over the waistband of his trousers.

"Oh yes," he agrees, closing his eyes at the first careful touch of her shaking hands, "Oh God, yes. Oh, please, please Belle—"

She yanks his work clothing down around his pale, bony ankles, and Shaun can suddenly feel her hot breath against his hard prick. It throbs and rises up off his soft belly to greet her parted lips.

"Please," he begs, gathering up the bed sheets in his tight left fist, "Please, Belle—I need it…I need it…"

She kisses his aching erection first—a gentle trail of kisses all along the hot length of his swollen, thick sex, tender and sweet and breathy—and then Shaun cries out and clenches his jaw when she eases her open mouth over the sensitive, rosy head of his cock, suckling him tightly, tracing her tongue deftly along the slender seam underneath.

Shaun opens his watering, brown eyes and begins to pant, calling out her sweet, lovely name.

"Belle—ah, Belle!"

She eases him further and further into her mouth, lapping at the bitter-salt taste of his arousal, which is already seeping from the blunt, wet tip of his prick—and then her heady animal hunger seems to return in spades. Through the fog and agony of his own arousal, Shaun can see that Belle's right hand has slipped down below the edge of the mattress. It thrusts and jerks—greedy and urgent.

Christ, she's bleedin' touching herself, he realizes with a glorious jolt.

Yes—she's fondling herself, kneeling between my spread legs, happy to be sucking me off. Christ, now she's bleedin' moaning. She's got me in her mouth, and she's fuckin' moaning.

He groans helplessly, "Oh my God—oh my God," while taking in the sight of Belle's pale-pink lips pressed tight around his swollen prick.

"Now, Shaun, please—get it," she says, but the condom is lying beside his useless, mangled right hand. It might as well be miles away.

He claws at it hopelessly—and then his heavy balls draw up tight, and he's grunting and thrusting his way through his powerful climax, trying to somehow hold it back, trying to hold it off.

"That's alright," he hears, from a far-off distance, "I already came once. That's alright, love—let go."

And he does.

Shaun moans, pulses, pants his way through his release, feels a sweet kiss upon his trembling thigh—then sleeps the sleep of the dead.

Later—many hours and hours later—he wakes with a start to a low, anxious whine from somewhere out in the dark living room. Belle is already wide awake and upright, standing by the foot of the bed.

"Daddy's gone," she whispers frantically, then disappears into the dimly-lit hallway, wringing her hands.

Aggie is already waiting by the back door, clawing at the wooden door frame, and when Shaun opens the latch, the terrier takes off running. Aggie hurries through the wet, back garden, past the low, iron gate, racing down the gravel road.

Shaun and Belle follow after, holding their breath, tightly clutching one another's hands—until the dog comes to an abrupt stop in front of a small, gated cemetery. Maurice French stands in front of a tall, stone marker near the front, clutching a fistful of wilted pansies.

'Colette French,' the stone reads, 'Beloved Wife & Mother.'

"Oh Daddy," Belle gasps, rushing forward to take her father's gnarled hand, "I'm so, so sorry. I didn't realize you wanted to visit her. I didn't realize you still remembered."

She hugs her father fiercely.

"He just misses my mum," she explains, her voice muffled, her wet cheek pressed against her father's terry bathrobe, "I had no idea that he still remembered."

"Sometimes the heart holds on," Shaun says softly, taking hold of Belle's free hand and kissing it, "Sometimes the heart holds on even when everything else falls away."

Maurice lays the pansies down upon the headstone.

"I'll bring you to visit everyday, sir," Shaun promises, wrapping an arm around Belle's slender waist, "and in the springtime—in the springtime we'll plant flowers."


End file.
